As a young girl, around the ages of nine and eleven, I recall vividly a graceful period in my life. I was cursed with early puberty and as a way to still feel like a child, The American Girl series helped.
Unlike most of my peers, I preferred seedy little stories or lengthy nonfiction. This was a bit of an exception.
At the time, only a handful of the girls existed in the series. Most girls liked Samantha or Molly but my favorite was Felicity. She was a saucy little ginger with green eyes and a stunning wardrobe.
For my tenth birthday, I requested a Felicity Merriman doll. As my birthday approached, I scaled through the American Girl magazine, lusting over the old school fashion and coveting the young models. I wish I had a cool gig like that. I often thought to myself.
When the big day arrived, I was handed a box. Inside contained the likeness of my favorite character. She was a bit reminiscent of the German bisque dolls from the first part of the century. A smile revealed some child-like teeth and eyes that blinked. She was dressed in a colonial pattern, her body of a flesh colored fabric.
This doll was expensive. I couldn’t play with her the way I’d hoped. My parents must have worked hard to purchase her and now I realize that it meant as much to them as it did me.
Felicity, nearly two decades later, sits atop my bookshelf in the living room of my apartment. Her face is somewhat crusty and her hair is a mess. The doll hospital is very reasonable so quite soon she’ll be a patient.
Its a good memory and one that I wish to pass down to my offspring someday.